Mind of a Killer
by A Darker Heaven
Summary: Misha Thomas is the nineteen year old nephew to the Angel Faced Killer. Misha, a psychic, sees Dexter for who he really is, and is not afraid. Soon, Dexter realizes that the Angel Faced Killer must die in order for Misha to be free.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Mind of a Killer (AU) (1/?)  
**Authors:****adarkerheaven**  
**Pairing:** Dexter/OC (Misha)  
**Rating:**PG-13  
**Warnings:** Pre-slash.  
**Spoilers:**None.  
**Feedback:** Yes please!  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Dexter belongs to its creators and Showtime. Misha, however, is all ours.  
**Summary:** **Misha Thomas** is the nineteen year old nephew to the Angel Faced Killer, the most wanted serial killer in Miami. Misha, a psychic, sees Dexter for who he really is, and is not afraid. Soon, Dexter realizes that the Angel Faced Killer must die in order for Misha to be free.  
**A/N:** This story was originally written as an RPG, which explains any shifty POV's. This chapter is not beta read.

Misha had been in the interrogation room for hours. The police had picked him up while he was on his smoke break at the music store. They said they had just a few questions for him about his Uncle, Nicolas Thomas.

Misha had answered their questions as best he could. No, he had not seen his uncle in over a year. No, he did not know where he was. The cops tried to ask the same questions in different ways and it was starting to grow tiresome, especially when Misha knew why they were asking even though police refused to answer any questions he asked.

Dexter watched all of it from the camera. His predatory instincts had sensed something different inside this young boy, but it was not something evil or corrupt or even dark at all. It was just something... different. And once he got his mind on a puzzle, he had to finish it. The boy obviously was not guilty, that was for sure. All he probably wanted was to be let out of that room, and Dexter didn't really blame him. That room kind of gave him the creeps, too. Maybe it was the heavy vibe inside there, the vulnerability and fear that was thick in the air.

They would not be able to hold the boy in there much longer. Perhaps they were intrigued because the boy was showing no emotion other than exhaustion. He obviously did not care that his uncle was a prime suspect in a huge murder case. The boy was guilty by association, but his hands were clean and Dexter knew it. This boy wasn't a killer. Dexter craved to know more, but in a different way than the police did.

"You don't seem to be upset about not seeing the man that raised you in so long," Sergeant Doakes said. Misha really didn't like this man. He hid behind his badge as if that was a good enough reason to make up for the things he had done.

Misha wondered why the police here had done such a thorough background check on him. Was he a suspect now? They would not find anything interesting, anyway. His parents had died when he was thirteen in a car accident. That was when he went to live with his uncle. He had left there as soon as it was legally possible to do so.

"He didn't raise me, he just let me live in his house. I barely saw him when I was there." Which wasn't often, Misha thought to himself, but the police didn't need to know that. "Listen, man, I'm missing a lot of work because of this. Can I go now or do I need a lawyer?" He finally asked, because this was getting ridiculous. Finally, after what seemed like another hour, they released him.

Misha was being escorted through the station when he spotted Dexter. What he saw in the man's aura made him falter slightly in his confident step and he quickly looked away from the hazel eyes that were watching him so intently.

Although it was instinctual for the boy to look away as quickly as he did, it wasn't as easy for Dexter. In that split moment when their eyes met, there was almost a feeling of recognition between them, a familiarity that Dexter could not understand. He felt as if the boy knew him in that instant, knew everything about him as if he looked past his heavy walls and barriers that he had constructed up with maximum security.

He simply did not understand it. The boy was not like him. The way his eyes darted away in shyness confirmed that for Dexter. Not like him at all, yet he saw him. It was supernatural, eerie, and strange, but Dexter was a man of science.

He would find out more about this boy. He would watch him from afar like one of his victims. Dexter's heart skipped a beat with the rush of his upcoming hunt.

*************************************************

Misha had felt it all week, those eyes on him wherever he went. When he would stop and look no one would be there, but his senses told him differently. It was frustrating and unnerving, to say the least. So when his roommate and sometimes fuck buddy Sam, asked him to go out with him and some of his friends for a drink, Misha jumped at the chance even though he usually tried to avoid crowds. He was determined to get drunk enough so those eyes did not bother him.

The club he found himself in only an hour later was a popular one for the gay, bisexual, transgender crowd of Miami. It was loud and way too crowded with half naked bodies writhing to music. It was a good place to lose himself in.

Dexter had followed him there that night, just as he had followed him every night before. He had always had a talent for blending into situations. A monster like him had to be. But this place challenged him. No matter how he changed himself, he couldn't fit in here. He did not dance, even in a situation where he had to. And yet it was a place where even someone who stood out could hide. It was a particularly crowded night, but Dexter knew exactly where the boy named Misha was.

It was interesting that Misha fit the description of his uncle's victims: young, boyish, beautiful. He wondered what their history together had been like.

Sam came up behind Misha and swung an arm over his shoulder and handed him drink number four. Since Misha was underage, Sam supplied him all his alcohol. It was easy to get away with it when the place was crowded like this, and Sam knew it was the easiest way to loosen Misha up.

Misha had that weird feeling of being watched again, and his eyes scanned the crowd. He thought he saw a familiar face, but it vanished in the hazy wave of people just as quickly. A few more drinks and some dancing later, he still didn't shake the unsettling feeling. Finally, he needed some fresh air. He excused himself from his friends and made his way towards the exit just as someone stumbled, pushing Misha backwards into a very firm chest.

"Sorry..." Misha started to say, but when he turned around and saw who it was his eyes widened in recognition and fear. Misha was a bit paranoid when he was drunk and also didn't know when to keep his mouth shut.

"I didn't do anything," he yelled at the man but luckily, or unluckily depending how one looked at it, the music drowned out his screams. Everyone in the club had to scream to carry on a conversation anyway, so no one even looked twice at him when he said, "Please don't hurt me."

Shit, Dexter thought.

It had happened that fast, that easily. He didn't give enough distance. He had been clumsy. There was no excuse for it. He was being a very messy, messy monster. Though inside he was panicking, he masked the emotion effortlessly and held up his hands innocently. No, he wouldn't hurt him. Time for a good excuse, a good lie. He knew the boy recognized him from the police station, but he didn't know he was a mere splatter analyst. So Dexter rook a deep breath and did something bold. He gently took hold of Misha's arm and pulled him to the club longue, where they could at least hear themselves think.

"We don't think you did. But we do think you fit the description of your uncle's victims, and thought it best they send me out in case he comes for you. Consider it protection if you want. Frankly, I just want to catch the guy. No offense." He didn't even recognize himself when he did these things. Misha eyed him warily as if he didn't believe him.

"He won't come after me. You're wasting your time," he finally said after a few hesitant moments. The fear he had felt was quickly replaced with deep-seated anger. Dexter eyed him curiously, still playing the part. The boy was clearly drunk and irrational. Good, all the better for both of them.

"And how can you be so sure? Wouldn't you rather be safe than sorry?" Dexter asked, because he felt as though he were closer to an answer. The boy might be innocent, but he knew things about his uncle he was keeping from the police. Perhaps they were irrelevant, but still, it would bring him that much closer. Misha was already shaking his head.

"If he had wanted to kill me he would have. He's had plenty of chance in the past. That's how I know he wouldn't bother with me now, " Misha told him, still eying Dexter suspiciously. "Besides, how do I know you are safe? Maybe I'd rather be sorry than take the chance."

Dexter shrugged as if it were all the same to him. "Maybe he just didn't want to kill you in the past. Did you ever suspect any murderous tendencies in him? Maybe something happened to set him off." Dexter knew that wasn't true. The need to kill did not happen overnight, especially not the way this man did it. He was skilled; an expert. He had a lifetime to learn. Dexter should know.

Misha rolled his eyes. "Oh, yeah. He kept a journal and I read it every day. Come on! I've already answered a ton of questions." He sighed in exhaustion. If they were going to play this game he might as well play along to see where it was going. "How about you buy me a drink and I will answer questions that don't have anything to do with my uncle?"

Dexter really didn't know what he meant by that. What other questions did Misha want him to ask? Maybe he was just desperate to escape the stigma of his uncle. He really didn't blame the boy. He gave him another smile and said, "You must be pretty drunk to ask a cop to buy you a drink. I know how old you are."

Misha smiled up at Dexter and leaned close to whisper in his ear, "And I know you're not a cop." He put a finger to his own lips as if he were sharing a secret and telling Dexter not to tell anyone else.

"Really? How can you tell?"

The boy was smart, and though it wasn't common for Dexter to do so, he vastly underestimated him. He thought in a panicked moment that he would say no, he wasn't a cop, because the station wanted to send someone the boy wouldn't recognize as one to watch him. But he knew Misha would see right through it again, with something Dexter really could not quite define. Because he did not want to be caught lying again, he gave the boy a better one.

"Fine, I'm not a cop. But I do work at the station and I'm here to help track down the killer." He kept it vague. Misha nodded as if that made perfect sense.

"What are you going to do when you track him down?" He asked, watching Dexter carefully. Dexter shrugged in a very un-cop like manner.

"Depends on how we track him down, doesn't it?" Dexter gave him a shallow smile. The boy was looking at him in that same way again, the way as if he were searching behind his mask, as if he were penetrating his wall, his protective shield. "What would you like to be done?"

"Karma will sort it out," Misha said confidently. "Wanna get out of here?" He asked. The music was starting to make his head throb.

Yeah, right. In Dexter's experience, karma slacked on the job. After all, he was far more effective with giving people what they deserved than an invisible, imaginary force such as karma. Dexter ended his train of thought abruptly as the boy's question registered.

"What do you mean?" Dexter asked with an amused look on his face. Sometimes he wished he had grown up normal just so he could understand certain things. This was one of them. "Now you are accepting of a body guard?"

"Maybe," Misha said flirtatiously. He didn't know what the hell he was doing but it did look like he could end up having an interesting night. The alcohol, as usual, was making him braver than usual. "Play your cards right and I might even let you come home with me... just for body guard purposes only," he teased.

Oh god. Another strange human mating ritual that he would never understand. Why did he always find himself in these situations? Well, at least something about this time was new. He had never been propositioned by a young boy before. Dexter knew how many drinks he had had tonight, he had watched him drink every one, and he knew it was the alcohol speaking.

"Oh, I see." Dexter laughed, a little nervously. If he could feel embarrassment he probably would have blushed. "You think I'm... like you. Sorry, kid. That's not what I wanted you to think," he tried awkwardly. Misha frowned.

"No, you're not like me at all. You're not like anybody I've ever met. I can see you." He reached up to put his hands on either side of Dexter's face and looked deep into his eyes. "I can see all of you."

It scared him enough when Misha reached out to touch his face, and he pulled away as though he had been burnt. But what scared him more was what he said. No, he couldn't see him for what he was. If he did, he certainly would not be touching him. Dexter smiled and played it off.

"No you can't. You just had one too many. I'll give you a ride home so you can sleep it off." He dismissed it with a wave of his hand. Misha was about to protest when Sam appeared out of nowhere, startling Dexter even more.

"Hey! Sorry man, he wandered off on me." He barely even looked at Dexter before he pried Misha's hands away from Dexter's face. "He didn't freak you out did he? He didn't tell you about your childhood or anything?" Sam said jokingly. "He's freakishly accurate with that kind of stuff." Sam wrapped his arm around Misha's waist to keep a hold of him while Misha just continued to stare at Dexter. Dexter turned his attention back to Sam, hoping that breaking eye contact with Misha would shake him from whatever stupor he was in.

"Yeah, he did kind of freak me out. Is he going to be okay? Do me a favor and don't give him any more to drink. I don't think he needs it," Dexter said. Unless you are trying to get into his pants, Dexter thought to himself. He had a feeling that mattered more to the other boy than anything else.

"I want to go home," Misha suddenly said before pushing Sam away. "I don't feel so good." It wasn't a complete lie, since the floor was swaying underneath him. "Dexter said he could take me home." He did not realize in his drunken state that Dexter had not told him his name yet. Dexter laughed as if he had been awkwardly put on the spot.

"I only said I could take you home because I didn't know you were with someone," Dexter lied, because of course he knew who he had come with. But if the boy knew exactly how close he really had been watching him- he wouldn't want to be taken home as much. Sam looked Dexter up and down as if sizing him up.

"Well, he is with me and I'm not leaving for a few hours." He looked at Misha as he said it. "I'll get you some water and you'll be fine." Misha shook his head.

"I really don't feel good," he tried to explain. Dexter stepped in between the two boys in a very cop-like manner, hoping to intimidate him.

"Hey. Listen. I work at the police station. I'm here to watch over him- I'll take him home," he told Sam firmly. "Unless of course you want me to tell some of my cop friends you are the reason he is drunk. And he is underage." He gave him a truly terrifying smile.

Misha didn't think he had ever seen Sam pale so quickly or stammer like that but he quickly made his escape. Misha looked up to Dexter.

"You enjoyed that didn't you?" He asked with a raised eyebrow as he linked arms with Dexter and pulled them towards the exit of the club. Dexter almost stumbled when Misha intertwined his arm with his. The contact was sudden and unexpected but he composed himself as quickly as possible.

"You really need me to stand? I don't think you are nearly as drunk as you are putting on," he half teased. "And just because I'm driving you home doesn't mean I'm your babysitter." He did not want to seem too eager, after all. It was much easier to search someone's home when they let you right in.

"I'm not, you're right," Misha admitted, smiling at Dexter. "I was just curious as what your reaction would be if I touched you." He let go of Dexter's arm when they were outside. "So where's your car?" Misha was almost as good as pretending as he was. Almost. Still, Dexter could see through it.

"I'm not a... touchy person." There. That was honest. He walked to his car, knowing that Misha could follow him without needing any more help walking.

"Obviously," Misha muttered as he followed him.

Dexter was glad he at least got that out into the open. Maybe then Misha wouldn't make any fake attempts to touch him again. And why had he tried, anyway? Was it to test him, because he knew he wouldn't like it? Dexter said nothing else as he stepped into the driver's seat of his car.

Misha hopped into the car as well and pulled on his seat belt as he rattled off the address to his apartment, even though he had a feeling Dexter might already know it.

"So do you like the work you do?" He asked him idly while trying to find a decent radio station to listen to.

Dexter almost laughed when the boy gave his address. Just for extra precaution, he missed a few streets before finally stopping in front of his apartment. He was surprised by the boy's attempt at small talk and shrugged in a very human manner. "Yeah, I like it."

"Want to come up for coffee?" Misha asked, although he really had no clue what he was doing. He could 'see' what the man was capable of, after all. But for some reason, he felt safe with him, knowing Dexter only went after those who hurt others. Dexter snickered in amusement.

"I thought you didn't feel well. You should drink water and go to sleep," he suggested, but turned off his car and unbuckled all the same. Maybe he could get the boy to go to sleep so he could look through his apartment. Coffee would keep the boy up. But on the other hand, talking to the boy might give him enough clues that he did not even need to look through his belongings. But clues for what? Dexter really hadn't figured that part out yet. He just knew there was something to be found. "I'll take you in." He got out of the car, expecting Misha to follow. Misha just shrugged to himself and followed Dexter until he caught up with him at the door, unlocking and entering.

"Excuse the mess," he mumbled, even though most of the mess was Sam's. Misha didn't keep a lot of personal things. In fact, he could fit all he owned into one duffle bag, and he had been sleeping on Sam's couch. The only evidence he lived here at all was the sleeping bag and the tarot cards that had belonged to his mother on the coffee table.

Dexter had already seen this mess, of course. He had not yet broken into his apartment, but he had inspected it through the protective shield of glass. He didn't need to force entry to see all he wanted to, though. Here it was, all before him. But he knew that most of the mess did not belong to the boy, and he was not at all interested in the jerk he lived with.

"You just move in?" He asked casually, hands in his pockets, standing idly.

"Sort of," Misha answered vaguely. He had actually been here almost six months and it was pathetic how little he owned. "I had to move from my other apartment pretty quickly and Sam let me crash here." Dexter eyed the bag on the floor next to the couch that was covered in blankets and pillows that also did not belong to him. A makeshift bed, never meant to be permanent. The boy was stuck in a rut.

"Doesn't look like you took a lot of stuff. Must have been one hell of a hurry. Maybe the same hurry when you're running away from a murderer." He gave his characteristic smile. Misha narrowed his eyes and walked over to his bag before kicking it closed.

"Even if my uncle was who you people say he is, he wouldn't be stupid enough to stalk me while the police have already questioned me."

Dexter snickered. You people? Dexter didn't belong to a people. "So your uncle is an intelligent man, you say? Sounds like you know his technique well." Yes... pretend to stay interested in someone besides him and throw him off. It was never really hard fooling teenagers, or at least that was what Dexter tried to tell himself. Deep down he knew Misha was no regular teenager.

Misha shook his head and moved the blankets to free up some room on the couch if Dexter wanted to sit down. He sat down himself and grabbed the tarot card deck off the table and started absentmindedly shuffling them to calm his nerves.

"I don't know anything," Misha responded, sticking to the story he told the police. Dexter shrugged, faking disinterest.

"I'm no expert, but if you live with a serial killer half your life, you kinda know things." Instead of sitting next to Misha, he sat down on the coffee table in front of the couch and leaned his forearms on his knees casually.

"Like how to spot one?" Misha asked, deliberately not looking at Dexter but down at the cards in his hands instead.

When Dexter's heart skipped two beats, he was almost sure the boy felt that, too. There was something very wrong here. Emergency alarms rang in his head, but he forced himself to keep his unchanged composure and not read into it. There was no way the boy could think that of Dexter. There was no way he could know the truth. Even if he had a hunch, why would be bring him home to be alone with him?

"I suppose that comes with the territory. But that isn't what I meant. I meant about your uncle specifically." Dexter shrugged again. Finally, and as casually as possible, he stood and stretched drowsily. He had to get out of there. So much for sneaking around tonight. "It doesn't matter. It's not right of me to interrogate you. I'll leave- but know it isn't very smart to drink this much while underage, especially when you are being watched by police." Misha rolled his eyes but glanced up when Dexter stood.

"Yeah, whatever." He was sure Miami had bigger worries than a nineteen year old drinking at a club. "Thanks for the ride home," he added, feeling silly and standing up and doing something he himself didn't really understand. He kissed Dexter lightly on the cheek. "Be safe going home."

When Misha stood and advanced towards him, Dexter panicked and backed away, but it wasn't quick enough. The kiss on his cheek was simple, friendly, but Dexter dropped the keys he had in his hand onto the floor and the backs of his knees collided with the edge of the coffee table and he fell backwards in shock. Misha grabbed him before he hit the floor and steadied him.

"You are going to have to get used to this touching thing. It's what normal people do, ya know?"

Touching? Normal people? Dexter's mind was trying to process what was happening too fast, and when he usually could compensate, this was over his head. He tripped again but didn't fall, and created a distance between them.

"What are you doing?" Dexter finally demanded, but when he realized he had raised his voice he took a deep breath and composed himself. At least, he tried, but Misha was acting as though he knew him. And people who knew Dexter for what he really was usually ended up dead. Dexter told himself to breathe and act normal. He had to cover his ass, before things got weirder. "I'm not... like you. I'm not gay. That is not why I followed you to the bar and certainly not why I drove you home. I'm sorry if you misunderstood." Dexter picked up his keys from the floor quickly.

"I don't misunderstand. I know you, Dexter Morgan, and I'm not afraid of you. At least not any more than you are afraid of me," Misha admitted to him quietly, and was careful to keep his distance this time.

It was just one panic attack after the other, without breathing room between. Dexter finally made it to the door without further hesitation and without a formal goodbye. He even came close to slamming the door behind him, and if he had, he would not have noticed. He was already bolting to his car.

**TBC…**

**This story shall be updated every 2 weeks or so. Please review and let us know what you think. Next update will be around the 26****th**** of February.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Mind of a Killer (AU) (2/?)  
**Authors:****adarkerheaven**  
**Pairing:** Dexter/OC (Misha)  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Warnings:** Pre-slash.  
**Spoilers:** None.  
**Feedback:** Yes please!  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Dexter belongs to its creators and Showtime. Misha, however, is all ours.  
**Summary:** **Misha Thomas** is the nineteen year old nephew to the Angel Faced Killer, the most wanted serial killer in Miami. Misha, a psychic, sees Dexter for who he really is, and is not afraid.  
**A/N:** This story was originally written as an RPG, which explains any shifty POV's. This chapter is not beta read.

It was a week later when Misha realized he had nowhere else to go. He found himself on Dexter's doorstep with nothing but a duffle bag that held everything he owned. He raised his hand to knock even though the condo's owner would not be pleased to see him, but he was desperate.

Dexter had not even put his second black leather glove on before he heard the ring of his doorbell. It was a disturbance he really was not used to. Cops had a way of knocking instead. They usually disregarded doorbells. It was not his sister, who usually banged impatiently on the door with her fist. It was just not a good time for interruptions. He had another long day of work running test after test for the Angel Faced Killer, and all of it had worked up an appetite for solitude. He needed the reassuring isolation of his apartment, and he needed to work on a project of his own.

He sighed and quickly discarded the gloves, throwing them into his trunk and locking away all evidence that he was going out to hunt tonight before he walked to the door. He looked angrily out through the peep hole to see who had rudely interrupted his time off, but nothing could have prepared him to see Misha staring right back at him.

He opened the door but not enough for the boy to even see in. "Can I help you?" He asked.

"I certainly hope so," Misha answered and looked around a bit nervously. "Dexter, let me in," he said, trying to push the door open so that he could get inside.

A million conclusions jumped into Dexter's mind at once. Did Misha know Dexter has been following him, for the real nature of what it was? Confused, he was afraid to leave the boy outside, and he did not know why. He allowed the boy to push forward into his condo.

"What… is your uncle following you? You should have gone to the station instead," he told him as he tried to stay calm. He kept the door open, his hand still on the knob.

"Sam kicked me out 'cause I stopped sleeping with him," Misha answered, looking around Dexter's living room curiously. His eyes lingered on the air conditioner unit longer than normal before looking back at Dexter. "I didn't have any place else to go."

Dexter wondered what had caused Misha to stop sleeping with him. He knew he was not particularly important to Sam, but he was under the impression that they had some sort of mutual agreement. Dexter did not blink once when Misha looked at the air conditioner. He didn't like his lingering eyes one bit. There was something going on, and he knew it. But if he suspected that Dexter was dangerous, why the hell was he here?

"You have a job… can't you get a hotel while you look for apartments? It's Miami, there are hundreds of them," Dexter offered.

"It's not safe," Misha said, looking away from Dexter to down at the ground between them. "The police can't help me but I know you can. Listen, I won't be any trouble, I promise, please let me stay."

_This could not be happening_, Dexter thought to himself. "I'm not going to let you stay here if you don't tell me what's after you. Is Sam after you?" He finally shut the door at the thought.

"No, I... I wasn't lying when I said I haven't seen my Uncle in years, but I know he's been watching me. I can't explain how I know, I just do," Misha stuttered as he tried to explain without sounding completely crazy. Dexter searched for honesty in Misha's unreadable eyes. Always a man of reason, Dexter knew there was something he was not telling him. Why would he seek shelter here, of all places in Miami?

"Once again, something you should tell the police. Not me," Dexter explained.

"He's smarter than the police. They will never catch him, he's been doing this a lot longer than they suspect and he's always gotten away with it," Misha confessed. He was running out of excuses now. He could not tell Dexter outright that he was safer here than anywhere else. The man was already wary of him and he didn't want to push his luck.

Dexter still remained frozen where he stood. "You withheld information. I wouldn't underestimate the police here in Miami," he told him, still not knowing whether or not to believe Misha's story. The boy had gone from being fearless to being terrified. He had been so convinced his uncle was not after him, but here he was insisting that he was. "Are you afraid?" Dexter asked.

To Misha, 'withholding information' sounded like something he could get into real trouble for. Suddenly, he felt tired of begging. "You know what? Just forget it," he waved his hand and grabbed his suitcase. "I thought this would make your favorite past time of stalking me a bit easier but you are too stubborn for your own good."

In a flash, Dexter was between the door and Misha, blocking his outlet. There was something about him and he had to find out what it was, if only for his own safety. "I told you it wasn't stalking. I was trying to find your uncle," He explained simply, knowing that there was no way Misha could really know how far the stalking had actually gone.

Misha rolled his eyes in response. "Why did you really freak out over a little kiss on the cheek?" He asked, putting the suitcase down and purposely stepping into Dexter's personal space. Dexter instinctively backed away, creating a distance between them when Misha got too close. He clenched his jaw and tried not to lose it again. He had never met anyone like Misha, never in his life. He could not understand him, nor could he define him. And he certainly could not kiss him.

"I didn't expect it. And I don't feel that way about you," Dexter tried to tell him the way he would to a child.

"You wouldn't recognize it if you did feel something," Misha answered bravely as he stepped up even closer, not letting Dexter get away that easily. "Are you afraid?" He asked, repeating Dexter's words.

_Yes_, Dexter immediately thought. He was terrified and there was no Code of Harry to tell him what to do or how to explain what was happening. The boy could not really know what he was, it was impossible. Dexter was a careful monster, and yet the boy's eyes dissected him.

"I don't know what you're talking about." He tried to sound honest, but his voice was breaking.

"Sure you do," Misha said. "You are afraid of me." Misha took another brave step forward, wanting to reach out and touch but did not want to push too hard.

For a split second, Dexter's mask slipped. "What are you?" He demanded, and for a moment, there was only silence.

Unsure, Misha took a deep breath before explaining, "I'm just different, I see more than I should, and I know things I shouldn't. That's how I knew you were different too."

Dexter still did not understand. 'Different' was one way to describe Dexter, sure, but exactly how different remained quite the mystery. "You mean you've seen your uncle?" He attempted to understand. "You really don't know me. You might think you do, but... you don't." There was a hint of defensiveness in Dexter's tone.

"The kind of seeing I do isn't with my eyes." Misha sighed. "I know your secrets, so I know you better than anyone else does. You think you don't feel, that you can't feel, but you're wrong. You just haven't had someone to show you how."

Dexter hated feeling like he lost control, especially with his closely guarded secrets. Now, all that was being threatened by some teenager who claimed he knew him. Whether Misha knew how deep his disconnection with humanity ran or not, the boy could see past all the tricks that he had painstakingly perfected over years and years of being what he was. He did not understand it.

"I'm nothing like you," Dexter told him.

"You're right," Misha said, stepping away and giving Dexter space. "If you're not going to let me stay, then I need to find somewhere else to go," he sighed, looking forlorn at the thought of a crappy motel.

This was not how Dexter imagined solving his 'case'. But he did not want Misha to leave, even if it meant his entire life was threatened if he stayed. If he knew about him, _really_ knew about him, would he also know where to look for evidence?

"How did you know where I lived?" Dexter challenged him.

Misha rolled his eyes and sat down on a sofa. If the other man was going to interrogate him, he might as well be comfortable. "You are in the phone book."

"No, I'm not," Dexter smiled as he proudly stated the truth. He was not going to let this boy leave or stay before he knew the truth.

_Damn_, Misha thought. "I just knew where you lived. What does it matter anyway? Right now you don't want me here but you don't want me to leave, either. Are you always this indecisive?"

Dexter was a lot of things, but never indecisive. He always knew what he wanted, what he did not want, and what to do next. He had to in order to survive. Yet Misha came and disrupted the balance, and he did not know what to think anymore. If he kicked him out, he would really know Dexter had something to hide. If he stayed, he would find out the truth.

"You can sleep on the couch until you find a place of your own," Dexter gave in, his eyes unblinking and steady on Misha, who smiled up at him.

"Thanks Dexter," he said. "I won't be any trouble, I promise."

There was no hidden meaning inside that statement. Misha really did not want to be trouble, at least not the kind he would get into looking in his air conditioner. Still, Dexter did not think he could sleep tonight with a stranger in his living room. Dexter removed the back pillows of the couch, making it more comfortable and disappeared into his bedroom only to come back with a comforter and pillows. He did not reserve a lot of things for guests. Misha stood and let Dexter place the pillows and blankets for his makeshift bed.

"I'm just going to step outside for a smoke," he announced, pulling his cigarettes out of his back pocket.

Dexter stopped fussing with the couch when he realized he should not be the one doing all this. This was no hotel. He looked up when Misha walked towards the door.

"You're so worried about your uncle following you, but you'd go out alone for a cigarette?" He asked, still not buying his story. "You are too young to smoke, anyway. It's a bad habit."

"I was going to leave the door open," Misha protested. "And you are never too young to smoke. I'll just be right out here."

Teenagers. They were something Dexter would never understand. "My door doesn't stay open. If you go out to smoke I won't let you back in," he stated calmly with an emotionless expression.

Misha frowned, glancing between Dexter and the door as if he were debating which was more important. Finally, he pouted and put the cigarettes back in his pocket. He would just have to sneak one after Dexter went to sleep. He walked over and helped Dexter finish up making his bed.

**TBC…**


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Mind of a Killer (AU) (3/?)  
**Authors:** **adarkerheaven**  
**Pairing:** Dexter/OC (Misha)  
**Rating:**PG-13  
**Warnings:** Pre-slash.  
**Spoilers:** None.  
**Feedback:** Yes please!  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine, Dexter belongs to its creators and Showtime. Misha, however, is all ours.  
**Summary:** **Misha Thomas** is the nineteen year old nephew to the Angel Faced Killer, the most wanted serial killer in Miami. Misha, a psychic, sees Dexter for who he really is, and is not afraid.  
**A/N:** This story was originally written as an RPG, which explains any shifty POV's. This chapter is not beta read.

Dexter busied himself that morning with making breakfast and brewing coffee, choosing to pretend to ignore the other presence in his condo. Misha had been there an entire week, and the boy still had not even attempted to find a place of his own. Dexter imagined this was a lot like Misha's living situation with Sam, with a couch and suitcase but nothing more.

Misha walked into the kitchen looking rumpled from sleep in his oversized sweat pants and T-shirt. He rubbed his eyes and made sure to brush up against Dexter as he reached for the coffee, which was easy to do in the small kitchen space.

"You get up to early," Misha mumbled.

Dexter gripped the handle of his coffee mug tightly when Misha came uninvited to claim his own cup of coffee. To Dexter, it was an invasion of property and personal space, and that slight but purposeful touch was the final nail in the coffin. This touching happened too often and too deliberately, and he could not continue on like this. He turned sharply to face Misha and glared at him.

"You need to tell me why you're playing this game," he demanded.

"What game?" Misha asked with his best innocent expression even though it faltered slightly when he saw the angry look on Dexter's face.

When Misha did not give in immediately, Dexter had no choice but to use a slightly more intimidating, aggressive approach. A taste of his own medicine, perhaps. Dexter took two large steps forward and backed Misha up against the fridge, without using a single hand to touch him. "Stop playing dumb," he demanded, refusing to elaborate. Misha knew exactly what he meant.

"It's not a game, per-say…" Misha said, looking up at Dexter a little nervously, not because he though Dexter would hurt him but because he could easily get kicked out. "Do you want me to stop?" He asked, dodging the question. Dexter would not be pleased if he knew Misha was still crushing on him.

Dexter stared, giving Misha a look that he usually saved only for those who were to die very soon. And still, the boy did not flinch or even back away. "I want to know what you are doing," Dexter insisted. If this boy really knew what Dexter was, he was obviously trying to get him to come out and say it. That is what this was all about, right?

Misha looked down to the ground when he felt himself blush under Dexter's stare. "I just... I just like you, okay? And I thought I could wean you into the touching thing if I went slow with it," he explained, feeling foolish.

Dexter tried to understand what that meant, but it was just as ambiguous as everything else Misha said. "What do you mean, you like me?" He asked, still not moving from his stance of intimidation, though it was not as confident as before. People liked him at work because he stayed out of people's business. He did was he was told, and he brought donuts. He did his best to fit in, while staying out. But with Misha, he did none of those things.

Misha rolled his eyes and tried to push Dexter away, but then changed his mind and grabbed Dexter's T-shirt to pull the other man closer. "You know, for someone as smart as you, you can be really dense sometimes," he told him frankly before pressing his lips against his in a kiss.

Panic froze Dexter's body long enough for the kiss to last, long enough for him to taste him, and long enough for him to feel the kick start of something unexplored deep inside him. A second later, Dexter tore himself away and stammered for a response. Never in his life had he been so physically connected to another. Never had he felt the warmth of a kiss. It was so... human. He stumbled on a stool but caught himself before falling, and gathered up his briefcase clumsily.

"I-I have to go. I'll be late," he practically ran to the door.

"Well, that went well," Misha said to himself, now standing alone in the kitchen. He sighed and went into the bathroom for a shower. Maybe going to work would get his mind off the Dexter problem.

It was a process that Dexter saw many times in the people around him, in his companions, and in his sister. He still did not understand these courtship rituals, and he was not sure it was something he could fake. In his mind, he saw Harry appear from the dead with a disapproving stare that penetrated deep into him where his soul should be.

"He's young, Dex. He doesn't know what he is doing. He could just be using you for a free place to stay, like he did Sam," Harry consulted him.

"No, he's different. He didn't belong with Sam. There is something inhuman in him," Dexter spoke.

"But not monstrous. If he knew what you really were, he wouldn't want your company," Harry pointed out. "You aren't capable of the kind of relationship he wants from you, Dexter. You can't feel the same way he wants you to feel, and more importantly, you can't fake it."

Dexter spent the rest of the day dwelling on his father's imaginary words from beyond the grave. It would have all been true if it were anyone else, if it was a random girl his sister set him up with, or someone he met at the donut shop. Yet for once in his life, this may be something he had to leave unexplained, at least for now. He felt something new arising from within him when he remembered the feel of Misha's lips on his.

Misha spent the rest of his day at work bored out of his mind and thinking he had really messed up with Dexter. He had pushed too hard and too fast. He would not be surprised if he came home to find his suitcase outside the door, and he was not sure that he did not deserve that.

Lucky for him, he did not get to find out, because he got home that night before Dexter did. He cleaned up and started making dinner, hoping it could be a peace offering between them.

Dexter never thought he would see the day where he was afraid to step into his own apartment for fear of who was inside. He took a deep breath, ignored his father's voice in his head, and walked through the door. He saw Misha busying himself with pots and pans and boiling water and he felt suddenly very stupid carrying a box of donuts in one hand.

He slowly walked up to the boy anyway, surprising him with his own peace offering. "I... I didn't know what you liked. So I got one of each," he tried to explain.

"Cool, donuts. Thank you. These can be dessert," Misha smiled at Dexter, and set them on the counter. "So… how mad are you?"

Misha's bluntness always kind of managed to shock Dexter. He did not really know what to say. What was he supposed to say? What was expected of him? Then he remembered that he did not have to pretend with Misha. Not as much, anyway. The rules changed between them. "Um... mad enough to get you donuts?" He tried.

"So not too mad then?" Misha asked with a smile. "What if I was to do it again?" He took a few bold steps close to Dexter, and the older man backed away against a chair, its legs screeching across the tile floor. Misha followed, keeping the distance between them closed.

"I- I..." He began, but did not know where he was trying to go with it. "You're really young. Your uncle is the most wanted man in Florida. I could get in a lot of trouble if people in the station knew..."

"I'm legal," Misha protested. "Why would you get into trouble? I told them I didn't know anything."

Dexter could not back up anymore, and he tried not to panic. "It doesn't matter if you know anything or not. You are still involved, or at least were, and... it would put me in a bad position," he tried to explain. It was true. Not only would it label him as something he was not, but LaQuerta would not exactly like it.

"Oh," Misha said. He had not exactly thought Dexter's job could be compromised because of him being here. Dexter needed his job, and not just for the money. "Well, we just have to keep the fact that I'm here a secret then," he shrugged, lifting his hand to push some hair out of Dexter's eyes. Dexter tried hard not to flinch at the gentle gesture.

"That would be nice," he whispered, as if they needed to be secret even in the privacy of his home. Slowly, his eyes came up to meet the boy's. They were looking at him dead on, seeing through him, asking him for more than he could give.

"Why do you do that? Assume you have nothing to give someone else," Misha tilted his head in curiosity. His eyes seemed to go out of focus, yet were intent as if seeing something far away but close at the same time.

Dexter focused quickly on Misha and stared in surprise. "I never said that..." He denied. "How do you know things?"

Misha shrugged, coming out of his trace-like state. "I just do."

That was okay, he decided. Dexter had his secrets, and Misha can have his. Whatever secrets he harbored could not be nearly as bad as Dexter's. He moved onto another important question. "Why do you... like me?"

"You have a darkness lurking in you that wasn't your fault, but you control it the best you can," Misha told him simply. "Do you know how many people just hurt people for the fun of it? A lot... and they don't always get caught by the police. But you… you turn it around and use it to help people. I like you because you're different."

Dexter really did panic then and stepped back until he had created enough distance between them. _This cannot be happening_, he told himself. _Misha could not know his secret._ "What do you know! How do you know!" He demanded.

"I told you, I just know, and I couldn't explain it to you. It would be like trying to explain to a blind person how to see," he insisted, holding his hands up in the universal gesture of 'take it easy, I'm not going to hurt you'.

_Shit_. Misha knew. Dexter did not know how, or why, but he knew Mish knew, and in Dexter's experience, people who knew about him usually ended up dead. "And why should I trust you?" He growled.

Misha rolled his eyes. "I've been living with you for a week and have shown you nothing but trust despite the fact I know when you're lying to me. I would think you could have a little faith in me."

"I haven't been-" Dexter stopped halfway through his denial. It was pointless to argue now. This was all too overwhelming, too hard to swallow down at once. He felt naked and vulnerable for the first time in his life, letting someone see him as he really was, as Harry saw him. Looking for any kind of distraction, he took a deep breath and took a step towards the boiling pot on the stove. He stirred the neglected pasta, staring into it as if it would tell him what to do.

Misha watched him for a moment. "I'm going to hug you. Don't freak out," he warned suddenly before he carefully came up behind Dexter and slowly wrapped his arms around his waist. Dexter was grateful for the warning but it still did not help buffer the shock. He clumsily dropped the wooden spoon in the spaghetti and he stood frozen, paralyzed, feeling the boy's arms wrap around him with warmth he had never felt before. Misha knew what he was, and he did not fear him. He accepted him.

"You're like a big cliff, asking me to jump from you," Dexter told the pasta.

"Is it really that bad? Sometimes change is good, you know?" Misha teased.

"No. No… not when you're me," Dexter whispered, as if to himself.

"Okay," Misha said quietly and kissed the back of Dexter's neck before letting him go reluctantly. "The noodles are done," he announced, reaching around Dexter to turn off the stove, and Dexter moved away to let Misha take control of dinner.

"You act like it doesn't shock you. Is it because I remind you of your uncle? Is that it?" Dexter jumped to conclusions, one of the many he was considering.

Misha almost dropped the pot he was holding, and turned to scowl at Dexter. "No! You are nothing like him," he corrected him quickly, and turned to continue getting dinner ready. Dexter jumped back at Misha's outburst. Suddenly, he sensed that Misha finally felt a little vulnerable as well, and Dexter did not feel so on the spot anymore.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean..." Dexter tried, and stopped before he made it worse, as he often did, and had already. In that outburst, Dexter also saw that Misha knew a great deal about his uncle, more than he admitted to authorities and to Dexter. Somehow, Dexter thought it was not fair. Misha seemed to know everything about him as if he could read him like an open book, but Misha was closed and locked with no key in sight. "I won't question your past anymore," he offered gently.

"It's not that," Misha sighed, feeling bad now for snapping at him. "You can ask me questions, it's only fair. I was just caught off guard a bit."

Dexter realized it was much easier to look at Misha while the boy was not looking back at him. Sometimes, though, it was still like looking into the Miami sun. It was beautiful but blinding. He shook his head. "I don't want to know. I don't care. I won't tell your secret if you don't tell mine."

"Okay," Misha agreed, and suddenly the need for a cigarette was intense. "I'm just going to get some air... you go ahead and eat," he said, pushing Dexter's plate to him. Dexter knew immediately what that meant, and in a flash he was in front of him, blocking his way.

"No smoking in or near my apartment," he realized how he sounded and corrected himself. "..Please."

"Dexter..." Misha whined, tapping his fingers nervously on the counter. "I really, _really_ need a cigarette," he pleaded, hoping Dexter would understand.

Being around his sister long enough, Dexter understood the urges for cigarettes. He knew what quitting cold turkey did to people. But he still was not going to let someone so young smoke so much. "I'm sorry. I can't let you," he told him, and did not move.

Misha briefly wondered if he could dodge around Dexter, but he had a feeling that that would not end in his favor. "All right, but I want a kiss," he negotiated, because he would need a new addiction to get his mind off an old one.

Dexter should have seen this coming. He cursed himself when he did not. Suddenly he could not look so easily into his eyes anymore. He took one awkward step forward until he was closer to Misha. He chanted repeatedly over and over in his head that he could do this, he could do this. Taking a deep breath, he joined their lips in a chaste kiss before pulling away quickly.

Misha sighed when the kiss ended so quickly, but he told himself that at least it was something. He could wait till he was at work to smoke again, and Dexter would never have to know. He wrapped his arms around Dexter's waist and did not let him get too far away.

When Dexter realized Misha had caged him in he tried to accept it. This close proximity to him was exhilarating and it was a sensation that surprised him. Usually he only felt this way when he had a body wrapped up on a table. "You don't know what you're doing. You don't want to get involved with me. You deserve more," Dexter told him.

"I want you, and you deserve more too," Misha argued as he placed a kiss on Dexter's chest where his button down shirt was opened at the neck.

Dexter closed his eyes when he felt Misha's lips on his bare skin, a place that had not been touched before by another. As overwhelming as this was, it was relieving. The mask had fallen. Could Misha be the one person to truly see him as he is, and accept him for it? He opened his eyes, startled out of his daze by the thought of having that closeness with anyone. "You need to be patient with me," he whispered.

"I can be patient," Misha assured him. Misha had a feeling he would get very acquainted with his own hand while he was being patient with Dexter, but it would be well worth it in the end.

Dexter shifted in their embrace, looking down on the ground between them. "Okay," he said softly, because he really did not know what else he could say. "Do you... wanna eat?"

"Yeah," Misha smiled, taking a seat on a stool and hoping if he ate, his hunger for nicotine would abate a little. "How was work?"

Dexter was about to give his usual spiel about work that he always gave in response to that question, but he stopped himself when he remembered he could be real. "It was work," he sighed, letting his attitude of the monotonous work day show to another for the first time.

Misha nodded. "You need a hobby. I mean… another hobby."

Dexter did not look at him as he prepared his own plate of food, thinking the comment was ridiculous. He frowned down at his spaghetti as he poured sauce on it. "I don't really have time for other hobbies," he told him. Was this the part where Misha tries to get him to stop killing? Is this his plan all along? Suddenly it made sense.

"I suppose that's true," Misha said with a shrug as he took another bite of his own food. He wondered how he could talk Dexter into sleeping with him tonight instead of the uncomfortable couch.

Misha's last comment left Dexter even more confused. Plate in hand, he faced Misha. "Why do I need a hobby?"

Misha looked up, surprised, because he thought that conversation was over. "All you do is work. Isn't that a bit boring?"

Obviously Misha did not know exactly how much time he spent looking for victims, stalking them, and killing them. "No. I find time for other things," he told him vaguely. In fact, he did not work enough. He was always putting off splatter reports to pursue his own activities.

Misha finished up his meal and put his bowl in the sink. "Like what? Stalking me? At least that's not so hard anymore with me living here."

Dexter tried to ignore that comment and took his first bite of pasta. He was not really hungry, he was simply too overwhelmed. Misha knew he had stalked him day and night. He also knew what usually became of the people Dexter stalked. They usually became prey. And yet Misha still wanted to get closer to Dexter. The boy was not intimidated at all. He knew the monster inside of him but it did not frighten him.

"Why aren't you afraid of me?" Dexter finally asked.

Misha shrugged. "I haven't done anything wrong, so I have no reason to fear you," he answered, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. He sat back down and placed his hands on the table, staring at them instead of Dexter. "Do you believe in fate?"

Dexter was taken off guard by the random question. There was not much he did believe in. "No, you've done nothing wrong. Except that you know about me," Dexter stared at him. "Now not only do I have to live carefully, now I have to worry about you making a wrong move. I'm not sure I can afford that threat."

Misha looked up at Dexter. "You think it would be easier just to kill me?" He asked, and he pushed a cutting knife that was lying idly on the counter over to Dexter. "Do it then," he taunted.

Dexter backed away from the knife that slid towards him. Another idea popped into his head. "Do you have a death wish? Maybe you're suicidal and _want_ me to kill you," he hypothesized.

"Could be... or I just know you won't do it, not because it's against your little code, but because you don't want to hurt me," Misha told him confidently.

Dexter needed to know how Misha knew about his code. It was one thing to find out he was a killer, but another to know his strategies. But he knew asking Misha would result in nothing. He would find out. He had to know where he had left a mess. Next time it would not be Misha finding out. "You put too much faith in me. I'm more of a monster than you will ever understand," he whispered.

"Too much faith never hurt anybody, and I can understand you better than anyone else," Misha told him. He bravely stepped closer Dexter and reached out to touch his face softly. Dexter tried not to jump back.

"Do you want to watch TV?" Dexter changed the subject quickly.

"Okay, but let's watch the one in your bedroom, I think I am about sick of your couch," Misha agreed. This was not exactly what he had in mind when he thought of the first time he would be getting into Dexter's bed, but he realized by now this would be no easy process.

"My couch isn't uncomfortable," Dexter mumbled, but followed behind Misha to his bedroom anyway. No one had ever spent the night with him in his bed, except for the few times when he was very young and Deb would find comfort next to him during thunderstorms. Dexter avoided eye contact and awkwardly settled on the bed, his back to his headboard. Misha sprawled on top of the sheets as if he owned them and sighed in contentment.

"I think I may be in love with your bed," Misha told Dexter.

The TV was on the discovery channel, and Dexter looked down at Misha as he made himself very much at home on his unmade bed. "Maybe it's because you spent years on couches," he suggested.

Misha did not comment for a while because he felt himself start to get tired. His eyes grew heavy as he watched the TV, something boring about whales. "Or maybe you just have an awesome bed," he mumbled finally.

Dexter still had not so much as glanced at the TV. He watched as the drowsiness settled in Misha. "I guess that could be it too," he whispered. His hands came to grip Misha's hips gently, lifting his body up and sliding it down so that his head could lie properly on the pillow. He slipped the covers out from under his body and covered him with them. Misha remained completely pliant under Dexter's hands, barely aware that he was being moved around. When the covers were draped over him he sighed happily and snuggled in deeper as he drifted off to sleep.

Dexter turned off the TV and listened to the soft sound of Misha breathing from his own side of the bed. He closed his eyes, amazed how easy it was to be relaxed next to him. It was a great relief to have someone see him for who he was, even if the thought would have terrified him before.

Dexter fell asleep quickly, and at first his dreams were empty and meaningless, as usual, but they soon turned very dark. Sometimes, his past came to haunt him when he was the most vulnerable, and he dreamed of a boy born in blood, crying at his loss of innocence.

At three in the morning, Dexter shouted himself awake and shot up in bed, covered with sweat and gasping for air. Misha woke the same moment Dexter did with visions of a little boy practically swimming in blood, and he automatically sought Dexter's body out in the darkness and wrapped his arms around the shaking man.

"It's okay," he whispered.

The arms around Dexter pulled him out of the darkness and his panic subsided, but he whimpered into safety of Misha's neck. Despite burning up, the body against him was cool and he wished it would just swallow him whole in its comfort.

Misha placed a kiss into Dexter's hair and continued to hold him close until his shaking finally died down. "You're okay now," he whispered while rubbing a hand up and down his back.

Still overwhelmed, Dexter wrapped his arms around Misha's slim waist as if he were hiding from the afterimages of the nightmare. He pressed his face into the boy's clothed chest and inhaled deeply, leaning his entire weight against the smaller boy. Misha ran his fingers through Dexter's short hair and tried not to let himself enjoy this too much, feeling rather guilty about it.

Words did not need to be spoken as Dexter lay on top of Misha, his face buried against his chest, his fists clenching the fabric of his T-shirt. The fact that he knew he did not have to explain himself was the most comforting thought of all. It was as though Misha saw into the deepest, darkest places inside of him and there was a strong sense of understanding between them.

"Feeling better?" Misha asked him quietly, even though he was afraid to break the spell their silence had cast.

Misha's voice shook Dexter from his stupor. Not willing to put his defensive wall back up so soon after it fell crashing to the ground, he did not speak, but simply laid his lips against Misha's cheek in a soft and exploratory kiss. It was followed by another, and another, the last against the corner of his mouth.

Misha sighed into the feather-light kisses and it took all his self control not to just pull Dexter too him and deepen them. Instead, he allowed his hands to move up and down Dexter's back in a soothing motion as if he were trying to calm a wild animal.

Dexter's light kisses became firmer, braver and more urgent, and his lips finally collided with Misha's. Comforted by the safe cover of darkness, he laid them repeatedly against his mouth, each one lasting longer than the previous. He wanted Misha to be the one take the lead into a deeper them.

Misha's patience flew right out the window as he reached to pull Dexter closer, his mouth opening under Dexter's and his tongue tentatively searching his mouth, not wanting to scare him off. Still unable to catch his breath, Dexter felt the warm, soft mouth open to him and curiously, his own tongue came to nervously slide into his mouth. Dexter felt the warmth spread like fire through his body, and when Misha could not hold back a moan, he felt the vibrations up his spine. Misha's hand was flat on Dexter's lower back, and he could not help but slider the older man's shirt up so he could feel his skin under his fingertips.

Dexter broke the kiss when he felt Misha's hands slide up his shirt but his lips could not part from his completely. They remained lingering against his, panting from something other than panic now as they breathed the same air.

"Dexter," Misha moaned his name, his hands continuing to explore the soft skin at the small of Dexter's back and tried to restrain himself from just ripping it off. "Can I?" He asked, tugging at Dexter's shirt to reiterate his question.

Dexter was at first confused by the question, but when Misha's hands began tugging impatiently at his shirt, he understood. He was hot. He was still sweaty from his nightmare and being this close to Misha was his body temperature rise. He usually slept with his shirt off, it was natural for him, but he had kept it on when Misha had fallen asleep in his bed. He told himself it was okay if it came off, and without speaking, Dexter fumbled with the fabric and slipped it over his head, mussing his hair. Misha sighed happily when Dexter's well toned upper half was finally exposed to him. His curious fingers explored Dexter's chest and down until they got to the scar on Dexter's side.

"Ow," he whispered as his fingers traced the scar.

Dexter hoped that just because he shed only one layer of his defenses did not mean Misha would expect something more. He did not think he could jump into that, if he did it at all. Intimacy was not something he could fake. He never had been able to. Yet with Misha, he did not have to fake anything, and this raw intimacy they were sharing right now proved it to him.

"It's old," He whispered, as if that made it irrelevant. Misha did not say anything to that, but he let his hands continue to explore Dexter's skin with light caresses.

Dexter tried to think of what he was supposed to do. Misha was still fully clothed underneath him and the fabric did not feel right against his chest. To distract himself, he decided to explain the scar. "I fell on a fence when I was a kid. I needed a blood transplant and everything."

"You must have been scared," Misha said. He could feel the sharp pain of the fence digging into his own skin and he took a deep breath to clear Dexter's memories from his head.

"I wasn't scared." Dexter told him honestly. It was not the thing that brought him these nightmares. He had not been afraid when it happened. He had only been fascinated by his own blood and a little bit in shock. Deb had been a sobbing mess, and Harry never left his side. He just wished he had not been such a nuisance at the time.

Misha needed to feel their naked chests together, but he knew he needed to broach the subject carefully. "It's getting hot... mind if I take off my shirt?" He asked nonchalantly.

Misha's question shook him out of his flashback. He realized how close he was to Misha and how uncomfortable it might be for Dexter to lay on top of him like this. He slid off of the warm body underneath him and lay on his back beside him instead. "Do you want me to turn on the air conditioner?" He whispered.

"No. It will be fine," Misha whispered, and quickly pulled his shirt over his head before lying down on Dexter's chest. "Is this okay?"

Even in the dark, Dexter could see every inch of his scar-less chest. He stared, fascinated, and shivered as he felt their chests collide. At first, he almost panicked and jumped off of the bed. But he feared how he would feel if he disentangled himself. He did not want to feel empty again. "Yeah," he whispered.

"Good," Misha sighed as his hand smoothed up and down Dexter's toned chest.

Dexter's own hands were still at his side, even when Misha's continued to explore. It was as though each stroke found a soul in him he did not think he had, it was like warmth spreading inside all his cold. It was unfamiliar and frightening, but hate was not the right word, not at all.

"Is this... cuddling?" He whispered into the darkness.

"Yep," Misha responded with a smile against Dexter's chest. He turned his head to place a kiss there. "I am usually not a cuddler, but I can't seem to keep my hands off of you," he confessed.

"Why?" Dexter whispered. What was so different about Dexter that changed something inside Misha?

"Some questions can't be answered," Misha shrugged. "But I think… me and you were just meant to be... as crazy as that sounds."

Dexter tensed underneath Misha. 'Meant to be' meant too many things. It meant that Misha wanted to be with him forever. For Dexter, forever was a long time, especially when he always considered himself a solitary animal. "And you know that already?" He asked as if he did not believe him.

"Yeah, I do," Misha said confidently, looking up at Dexter when he felt him tense up. "You can tell me if this is too much."

Dexter sighed audibly in order to get his body to relax again underneath Misha's cuddling. It was a lot to take in, especially when the trauma of the nightmare was still fresh on his mind. "You're young. Eventually you will come to learn I don't deserve you," he whispered.

"I will just have to convince you that you do deserve me then," Misha smiled sleepily as he laid his head back down and wrapped an arm around Dexter's waist.

"I hope so," Dexter whispered the confession into the darkness, so softly that he was not sure if Misha heard him. He could feel the drowsiness heavy in Misha's body and knew the boy would find sleep again a lot easier than he would.

**TBC…**


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** Mind of a Killer (AU) (4/?)  
**Authors:****adarkerheaven**  
**Pairing:** Dexter/OC (Misha)  
**Rating:**PG  
**Warnings:** Slash.  
**Spoilers:** None.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine, Dexter belongs to its creators and Showtime. Misha, however, is all ours.  
**Summary:** **Misha Thomas**is the nineteen year old nephew to the Angel Faced Killer, the most wanted serial killer in Miami. Misha, a psychic, sees Dexter for who he really is, and is not afraid.  
**A/N:** This story was originally written as an RPG, which explains any shifty POV's. This chapter is not beta read. Feedback is appreciated!

The next day, Dexter was the first one in the office to leave for his lunch break. The office was stuffy and hot and the detectives were going crazy over the mystery of the Angel Faced Killer. Dexter hoped they had forgotten about Misha's involvement, but he knew that they were too good at their job for that. Yet he was not sure he could escape the awkwardness if the boy was brought back into questioning.

Dexter drove to the music store he knew Misha worked at. He had never approached him there before, but he had certainly watched secretly from the shadows. Today, however, he walked right up to the store and found Misha outside, leaning against the wall.

"Just because you sneaked your way into living with me doesn't mean I should stop stalking you," he tried to tease him, making his best stab at a joke. He was much better at stabbing other things, but he figured he would give it a try. It was worth the attempt just to watch Misha smile.

Misha did smile. He had been dealing with annoying customers all day and desperately needed the cigarette he was holding in his hand that he had been about to smoke. He fiddled with the pack before he stuffed it into his pocket. "I suppose not," he said with a laugh and pulled Dexter into a hug. "Not that I'm not pleased to see you… but what are you doing here? I thought you had to work."

Dexter was surprised by the very public hug and instinctually stepped back. When he realized how awkward he had made the greeting, he coughed nervously, and frowned at the cigarette. "I thought you stopped smoking those stupid things."

"You said not to smoke at or near your apartment, so I've just been smoking here," Misha rationalized, and tried not to be too upset that Dexter had practically bolted from something as small as a simple hug. Instead of thinking about it, he pulled out the cigarette and lit it up, inhaling deeply.

Dexter snatched the cigarette between Misha's lips. "Smoking here will make you want you to smoke at my apartment, won't it?" He pointed out.

"Dexter, this is ridiculous. I'm going to smoke and I respect the fact that you don't want me smoking at your place but you can't stop me from smoking at work," Misha argued stubbornly, and took another long drag as if to prove a point.

Dexter snatched the pack of cigarettes out of Misha's back pocket. "That would be fine if you were older," he said simply.

"I'm old enough to buy them, so I'm old enough to smoke them," the boy protested. "Give 'em back," he glared, holding out his hand expectedly.

Dexter just did not understand teenagers. Not even when he was one as well did he understand them. It made his high school years very awkward. Dexter liked kids, but once they hit a certain age, and once puberty started changing them, then forget it. He did not really understand why he needed to take Misha's cigarettes away, but he just knew the boy smoked a lot of them. It seemed wrong to let him. But doing so had angered him and he knew lunch was not going to happen. "I have to go," Dexter announced suddenly and walked off, still possessing the cigarettes.

"Dexter wait!" Misha tried to stop him, and he chased him down. He did not want them to leave on bad terms. He could always buy more smokes later. "You didn't tell me why you came here."

Dexter stopped when Misha shouted, causing attention to himself near the busy Miami streets. It made him nervous. "To steal your cigarettes?" He tried.

Misha rolled his eyes, a little disappointed. "All right, fine. Have it your way. I'll see you tonight, I'm working late," he told him before he spun around to head back into work.

Misha was working late… that would give Dexter the privacy he needed to do some research on his uncle. He was on the hunt now, determined just as all the detectives in the station, but he needed to find them before they did. This time, he was the one to stop Misha. "How late?" He asked.

"Closing... I'll be back around midnight," Misha answered when he stopped to turn and look at Dexter again. "Why, you got a hot date tonight?" He teased

Midnight. That gave him plenty of time to look through Misha's belongings and investigate his history. He had a feeling that he could find his uncle's house if he looked in the right places. Dexter smiled timidly at Misha despite the physical distance between them. "I guess I do. At midnight."

Misha's smile was brilliant. "All right, see you then." Misha turned to walk into the store, the bell ringing loudly as he left Dexter to stand alone and awkward on the sidewalk. Misha had a feeling something was off, but he did not want to pry. He had already pried too much already.

For some reason, Misha's smile dazed Dexter. It only took him a second to recover, however, and he walked away quickly to his car.

It was much easier to look through someone's things when they were already placed unsupervised in your own condo, Dexter decided. Unable to shake his habit, he still wore his gloves and was just as careful as if he had broken in.

Dexter did not have to pry deep. Misha's suitcase seemed to hold all his possessions, and he was a boy of very few. He moved around a lot, and obviously travelled light. Maybe his uncle still had all his other things and Misha had left in a hurry and only took one suitcase full of belongings.

Inside the bag were balled up, wrinkled clothes, with no stains of blood. A box of condoms, opened, fell onto the floor and Dexter eyed it strangely. He resumed his attention back on the contents inside and found another carton of cigarettes, a dime bag of marijuana, cherry flavored rolling papers, and a bottle of something labeled "KY Jelly". When he realized what it was, it startled him and he pushed it aside quickly.

Dexter searched further, knowing that Misha must be hiding something beneath this surface. Inside this suitcase, somewhere, there had to be a connection to his uncle. There simply had to be. He was hiding something that was far worse than the drugs, which he hardly tried to conceal at all.

Dexter found exactly what he was looking for underneath the false bottom of the suitcase. Five letters with no return address, in envelopes only labeled "MISHA" in sloppy, rushed lettering across the front. They were given to Misha directly, or left for him. They were never mailed.

Dexter carefully opened them, taking his time to read and analyze every word. Each letter was one threat after the other, strictly enforcing that Misha should tell no one where he was or he would end up just like all his pretty-boy-look-alikes. He made up a fake name and told Misha to tell it to the police. Michael White. That was who everyone at the station was after, even though it was far easier to give him a more malicious nickname like the rest of the station's most wanted serial killers.

Dexter quickly copied the letters by machine and hid them just as carefully as Misha had in a locked door of his desk. It was too close to midnight to go back to the lab and check for fingerprints, but he had a feeling he would not find any but Misha's. This killer was a careful monster. He knew the rules. He would not trust Misha to not turn these letters into the police under interrogation, and he would not leave any traces of DNA.

Dexter carefully placed them exactly how he had found them and returned all his belongings to their clustered package inside the suitcase.

Misha was tired. He had had a horrible rest of the day at work, and when he went into the back room, he had found another letter. He did not even bother to read it, and just stuck it in his pocket and headed to Dexter's. The older man had locked the front door, so Misha could not just walk in, and the boy grumbled in frustration. He had to knock, which irritated him.

"Dexter, open up." he called.

Dexter painted on a smile when he opened the door, hearing Misha's voice, but frowned when he saw how miserable the boy looked. He stepped aside and held the door open. "What's wrong?" He asked politely.

"I'm just tired," Misha shrugged, giving Dexter a quick kiss on the cheek before pushing past him and practically melting onto the couch. He moaned as he sunk into it, grateful to be off his feet.

Dexter stood awkwardly for a moment. "Okay," he replied, because he really did not know what else to say. Quietly, he sat down on the couch near the boy's legs and his hands moved to gently unlace and remove Misha's shoes. Not looking into his eyes, his hands took one foot at a time in his hands and massaged the bottom it with his thumbs deeply and slowly.

"You're too good to me," Misha sighed as he relaxed under Dexter's touch.

Dexter watched in fascination as the tension drain from Misha's body. "You should go to sleep," he suggested quietly, and after another moment of careful massage, he shifted and slid his hands under Misha's body and lifted him up like a child. His weight was nothing to Dexter and he carried him to the bedroom and laid him carefully on the bed.

"You have to go to bed with me," Misha insisted, and clung to the fabric of Dexter's shirt. "No working late," he mumbled sleepily.

Dexter was about to stand back up but the boy's hands clutched his shirt and Dexter did not resist them. "I'm home. I'm not working late," he tried to soothe whatever worry was stirring in Misha's exhausted mind.

Misha blinked in confused, before realizing that Dexter was right. "Oh, okay then."

Dexter had to laugh softly at that. Misha was too young to be carrying around a bag of drugs and condoms and death threats. An overwhelming need to protect him was growing strongly in Dexter and although he had never felt anything like that before, at least not for anyone besides Deb, it was too strong to ignore. "You think I was going to leave at midnight to work in my lab?" He teased.

"No, your other job," Misha answered quietly. "Give me a kiss goodnight."

Dexter knew what he meant by that and it took him off guard. It was like there was no hiding anything from him. There was something equally comforting and terrifying about that. But at least Misha did not know exactly who he was trying to find and kill. He did not know he had looked through his things. "What makes you think I was working on my other job?" He sat up.

Misha made a noise of protest when Dexter moved away from him, but he was too tired to do anything, much less pay attention to Dexter's question. He allowed his eyes to flutter shut and his breathing evened out in sleep.

The older man sighed. Carefully, so as not to disturb him, he slipped the covers over Misha. He was still in jeans and fully dressed, but there was no way he was going to make him more comfortable by taking any article of clothing off. Instead, he shifted the boy's sleeping body into a more comfortable position, and stopped when he heard something crinkle in his pocket. He looked to see something white poking out and he gently removed a folded envelope labeled exactly the same way the others had.

The envelope had half spilled out of his pocket, one moment away from falling out on its own. If Dexter kept it, Misha would wake and think he had dropped it, and Dexter could take it to the lab to be analyzed for DNA. It could either go horribly wrong or perfectly. Dexter would have to take that risk.

He placed the envelope in a bag and locked it away. Tomorrow, he would have to run the tests, even though it was a Saturday. He could not wait until Monday. He could not afford such a delay in his project. He could not risk the detectives finding the killer before he did. And lately, with how much his life had changed, he needed a good kill.

On that thought, Dexter lay down on his side of the bed away from Misha. He was surprised to find himself craving the same close contact he had from the boy last night, but he was asleep before he could think more on it.

**TBC…**


	5. Chapter 5

**Title:** Mind of a Killer (AU) (5/?)  
**Authors:****adarkerheaven**  
**Pairing:** Dexter/OC (Misha)  
**Rating:**R  
**Warnings:** Slash  
**Spoilers:** None  
**Word Count:**4,754  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine, Dexter belongs to its creators and Showtime. Misha, however, is all ours.  
**Summary: ****Misha Thomas** is the nineteen year old nephew to the Angel Faced Killer, the most wanted serial killer in Miami. Misha, a psychic, sees Dexter for who he really is, and is not afraid.  
**A/N:** This story was originally written as an RPG, which explains any shifty POV's. This chapter is not beta read. Feedback is appreciated!

Misha woke slowly and stretched lazily before opening his eyes, and Dexter watched as his body breathed with life. "Morning," Misha murmured sleepily, reaching to run his fingers through his hair.

Dexter did not flinch when a hand came to comb through his hair, but it surprised him. "Did you sleep comfortably?" He whispered. He had changed into sweatpants before going to bed, but Misha slept in jeans.

"Yeah," Misha answered, but then pouted. "I don't remember getting a kiss good night. Can I have one now?"

Dexter smiled shyly. Something about that particular pout tugged at something inside of him. "Maybe I gave you one and you just don't remember. You were pretty out of it."

"I'm pretty sure I would have remembered a kiss from you," Misha disagreed with a smile.

Dexter knew he was not going to get out of this one. He rolled onto his side and leaned in to place a chaste kiss against the corner of Misha's mouth before withdrawing.

"I think you can do better than that," Misha smirked, pulling Dexter back for a deeper kiss and swallowed his surprised moan. Dexter forced himself to relax and shift closer to the boy, breaking from the kiss but not taking his lips off of his. He laid a few firm kisses of his own on his lips and let a second slow, tentative but deep kiss begin.

Dexter let himself drown in the kiss, the boy's arms bringing him closer and his own tongue becoming bolder as it explored his mouth and the taste of him. That was when he felt a strong and sudden stirring in his groin, and he broke the kiss immediately when he realized what was happening. Panicked, he laid back down on his back.

"You should get to work," he tried to act cool to the ceiling.

"I don't have to work today," Misha told him, looking confused and rumbled from their kisses. Perhaps things were moving too fast.

Dexter grabbed the bed sheets and covered his hips, trying not to be obvious about his attempt to cover up something. No one had ever done this to him, and he just wanted it to go away.

"Oh," was all he said.

Misha just stared at Dexter, trying to figure out what was wrong without being invasive and finding out a different way. "Are we moving too fast? If it's too much, I can go back to sleeping on the couch," he offered.

The shades in the room were still drawn, and Dexter was thankful that it was dark enough to hide certain surprises. He shifted and drew his legs up to prevent pitching a tent out of the bed sheets. "No, we're not going fast," was all he managed to say.

"Oh. Well, why did you stop?" Misha asked, reaching out to put his hand on Dexter's chest.

Dexter did not flinch when the boy's hands came to lie on his chest, and in fact, the touch comforted him. "I don't know. I guess I was afraid it would... go too far," he tried, because he simply could not admit that his body was enjoying their closeness too much.

"We will go as far as you want to go," Misha soothed, and unable to control himself, he leaned forward to kiss Dexter's neck.

Dexter knew Misha was not nearly as patient as he pretended to be. What teenager his age was? He would leave him soon enough, when Dexter continued to keep the relationship sexless. With how much he moved from place to place, he seemed to be the kind of boy to get bored quickly. Misha could get anyone he wanted without even trying, boy or girl.

"Do you like girls too? Or... just men?" Dexter asked timidly, changing the subject.

"Just men," Misha said absentmindedly, and unbuttoned a few buttons on Dexter's shirt so he could kiss his chest.

Dexter's breathing quickened slightly when he felt warm lips on his naked chest. To distract that mouth, Dexter opened his own. "Have you ever been in a relationship before?" He asked another timid question. These were things he could not really look through his bag to find. He thought of Sam and added, "I mean... a real one."

"I've had relationships," Misha said, still mouthing Dexter's chest and not really understanding why Dexter felt the need to talk about this now.

_Well, at least one of them was an expert in these matters,_ Dexter thought to himself. Dexter picked up on the hint that Misha perhaps did not want to talk about his past, but he was leaving so many things unsaid.

"Relationships like this?"

Misha sighed and laid his head on Dexter's chest and gave up his seduction for now. "What do you mean like this?"

Dexter recognized his mistake right away when Misha stopped kissing him. He was ruining whatever they were doing.

"Nevermind," Dexter whispered.

"No, you asked for a reason, and I want to know what's going on in that head of yours," he shook his head and ruffled Dexter's hair. Dexter retracted from the hand coming to mess up his hair and he could no longer make eye contact comfortable.

"I thought you were already an expert on what goes on in my head," he told him.

"I don't want to pry," Misha said softly, trying not to be hurt when Dexter rejected his touch.

"You don't want to pry?" Dexter asked in disbelief. "You sneaked your way into my life and my bed and you still haven't told me how you know everything about me," Dexter snapped.

"Are you trying to start an argument?" Misha asked calmly. "It was for my own safety before, but now I know I don't have to worry about you hurting me… so I don't want to pry."

Dexter quietly considered this. "You thought I would hurt you before?" He asked.

Misha took a deep breath before speaking. "The first time I saw you, I saw the things you had done, but not why you had done them," he explained. "So yeah, I was scared of you."

Instead of getting answers, Dexter's mind just overcrowded with new questions. "What do you mean you saw them?" He demanded, and sat up on the bed, feeling too vulnerable lying down. Did Misha walk in on one of his kills? No, that was impossible, he would have known.

"I told you I see things differently than most people. I guess you could say I am psychic. Sometimes, I can see flashes of other people's memories, thoughts, or emotions. Sometimes it's intense and detailed, and sometimes it vague, sort of like an impression of something," he tried to explain something that could not properly be explained, not feeling very comfortable talking about this. "I'm a bit of a freak," he added with a shrug, staring down at his hands instead of up at Dexter.

Dexter laughed, obviously thinking at first this was a joke. But when he saw the boy's face, he knew he was not kidding._Oh, great,_ he thought to himself, _this meant Misha was crazy_. It all made sense now to Dexter now. It explained why he acted the way he did and why he wanted to be near a person like Dexter. He felt his heart sink to the floor.

"Then what am I thinking right now?" Dexter challenged, and focused on something he knew Misha would never guess. He repeated the words Harry Morgan over and over in his head.

Misha huffed in annoyance and reached out to touch Dexter's hand, because touch always seemed to help anchor him to what he was seeking.

"Harry Morgan Harry Morgan Harry Morgan," he said.

Dexter almost recoiled when he heard Harry's name on Misha's lips, but that was no reason to think the kid was psychic. He could also just be smart. Dexter had not been very creative with the name he picked.

"What now?" He asked, as if it were a game. He thought of his boat, Slice of Life, and repeated its name.

Misha growled, pulling his hand away. "Your damn boat," he snarled before getting up and walking into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

Dexter was left in shock, both from Misha's angry outburst and the effortless rape of his mind. He was left to sit there alone, letting what had just happened sink in slowly. Dexter was a scientist. He relied on science to keep himself safe. But what this meant, defied all of that. It threw everything he ever thought about the world into a whirlpool.

They were both guilty of something. They both had secrets they did not want to share, not even with each other. Dexter could respect that. Suddenly, he did not care if this was just a huge coincidence or a phenomenon. All he knew was that when the boy left his bed, something was left missing and he went after it. He stepped silently to the bathroom door which had been slammed shut. "I'm sorry," he said timidly to the door, not really knowing what he was apologizing for, but knowing this situation called for it.

"No you're not!" Misha screamed at the door. It was not really Dexter he was mad at, but himself. He sighed and stared at his reflection in the mirror hatefully, suddenly becoming so angry that he raised his fist and punched the mirror as hard as he could. It shattered, and Misha stared at the blood dripping down his hand dispassionately.

Dexter broke down the door as soon as he heard the sound of glass breaking. Panic took over, and he no longer cared about giving the boy a safe distance. "Misha!" He shouted his name, and in his slippers he stepped over the broken glass that littered the floor and grabbed the bloodied hand Misha was staring so intently at.

"Shh, let me," he whispered, in case Misha was thinking about protesting. Dexter quickly reached for a hand towel to wrap around the wound. It was bad, and small pieces of glass were still imbedded.

"Sorry," Misha said, sounding very distant, as if he did not feel the pain at all. "That was stupid of me... I broke your mirror."

"Shhh," Dexter soothed again, wrapping the towel tight enough to stop the bleeding but loose enough not to drive the glass further into his skin. He looked around at the floor briefly. There was no path out of the bathroom without Misha stepping on more shards in his bare feet. Effortlessly, Dexter hoisted the smaller boy into his arms and carried him out, but he did not put him down even after his own feet fell on smooth carpet. With this much blood lost, Misha must be in shock. He could not walk. And Dexter did not particularly want to let him go.

He brought him to the kitchen sink and propped him on a stool, their bodies still very close as if he were still in his arms. "Are you lightheaded?" He asked. If it was bad enough, he would have to take Misha to the hospital. He gently unwrapped his hand from its makeshift bandage and held it delicately, running the water and getting it the right temperature.

Misha thought about it for a moment before answering. "Yeah, a little," Misha admitted.

Dexter frowned, knowing that was a bad sign, but at least the boy was not passing out on him. The sooner he sanitized it, the sooner he could lay him down. With the water finally the right temperature, he looked at Misha, studying his face for the first time this morning. "I have to wash it out and remove the glass. Or would you rather go to the hospital and they can do it?" It was not meant to threaten or scare him, and he really needed to know if this called for an emergency visit.

"No hospitals," Misha said firmly. He would have to be dying to even consider going to a hospital, and even then he would probably put up a fight. "People's emotions in hospitals are... overwhelming," he tried to explain.

Dexter sighed. "Just close your eyes and relax," he whispered in reply, their faces mere inches from one another. For a split second, Dexter thought about letting Misha drink a beer or smoke some of the weed in his bag, if only for this one occasion. Thinking better of it, he held Misha's hand under the gentle water of the sink, washing away the drying blood that ran down his arm. It was funny, being so gentle like this. The blood did not excite him. He wanted it to wash away. Knowing it must sting, he laid kisses on Misha's cheek repeatedly.

Misha hissed, his mind finally starting to wake up and register the pain from his hand. He tried to concentrate on Dexter's lips against his cheek. "Can't we just leave it?" He asked pitifully. "It hurts."

Dexter kissed him again sympathetically. He remembered what little time he spent in medical school and took the hand out from under the stream after the water no longer ran red. "No, it will feel better when the glass is out. I promise. I'll try to do it fast, like ripping off a band aid. You're okay," Dexter promised, and kissed him on the corner of his mouth. "Come here," he whispered, before pulling Misha closer and lifting him up again, his weight next to nothing. Dexter reversed them so he was the one seated on the stool, with Misha in his lap, his legs around his hips. Since he could not give him a hand to squeeze, since he could not give him something to bite down on, this would have to do. From this position, he could see the hand well. He took down a first aid kit that was located in a drawer and gently took out the first and most painful looking shard.

Misha jerked his hand away. "Okay, that's enough. It's fine now," he said, putting his injured hand behind his back.

Dexter, afraid to hurt him or scare him away even more, allowed Misha to steal back possession of his hand. But he would need it back. He was not half done yet. A hand around his waist prevented the boy from sneaking away. "It will hurt more if you leave it. Let me make it better," he whispered as if he were speaking to a small, hurt child.

Misha buried his face in Dexter's neck. "I just want to leave it alone. It was a stupid thing to do, so we should just leave it like it is."

Dexter gently took back Misha's hand and brought it flat on the counter again. Before the boy could protest, he removed another shard from the soft flesh around his knuckle that was reddened and angry with pain. "It wasn't stupid. I did the same thing once when I was your age and I had someone there to take out the glass and clean me up," he told him honestly. Harry had yelled at him at first, but Dexter could feel the weight of the man's heart falling to the floor when he saw the blood down his arm. Dexter had taken the pain as nothing, however, and was just shocked that it had happened while Harry took out each piece as tenderly as if Dexter was wailing in pain.

Misha gave in and closed his eyes and kept his face buried in Dexter's neck. "Why'd you do it?" He mumbled into Dexter's neck, trying to keep his mind off the pain by concentrating on Dexter's voice.

Their reasons for shattering glass had differed while still remaining very much the same. Whereas they both did it out of self hatred and frustration, Dexter did it to feel human. He was even more the monster after Harry stormed into the bathroom to find him bloodied and he did not shed a single tear of pain.

"I wanted to feel the pain to see if I was real," he confessed, and it was remarkably easy to tell him. "But it didn't make me feel better." He held him closer as he removed two tinier pieces from his injured hand.

"No, defiantly not," Misha agreed. He had accomplished nothing with this little stunt. "I still feel like a freak, and now I also feel like an idiot."

Dexter located the very last shining pieces of glass before removing them. "You were frustrated and scared. I don't think you're a freak or an idiot," he told him. "Last piece." He warned before he pulled it out. "There." He searched the first aid kit for anti-bacterial cream and bandages to safely wrap him up.

Misha allowed himself to open his eyes and look at his hand. "You really don't think I'm a freak?"

Dexter smoothed the cream generously over the wound that threatened to bleed again and carefully began the practice of wrapping it. He could feel Misha's eyes on him but his own remained on his work. "You don't seem to think I'm much of a freak," he answered him.

"That's because you're not," Misha responded easily. He laid his head back down on Dexter's shoulder as he watched him wrap his hand. "You are good at this."

Dexter secured the bandage tightly to prevent bleeding but loose enough so the boy could still manipulate his fingers, though the pain was probably so bad he did not want to. Dexter put two Advil in Misha's good hand and poured him a glass of water, all while keeping him secured in his lap. "You treat your difference like a burden, when it should be treated as a gift. I'm not as lucky as you. Don't curse what you have, there are things much darker."

Misha downed the pills. "Yeah, I know you're right," he said.

"No you don't, otherwise you wouldn't smash your reflection," Dexter pointed out. "You need to lie down," he whispered, and stood up, still holding Misha off the ground in his arms. He walked to the bedroom and gently laid him down in bed.

"But I just got up," Misha tried to protest.

Dexter placed the hurt hand on Misha's stomach to keep it at a good level and brought the covers up over him. "You can get up again after you relax. You lost a lot of blood. I'm going to clean up," he told him, busying himself with making Misha comfortable.

Misha sighed and tried to relax. "Alright."

Dexter left him to grab a broom and clean away the broken glass littering the tile floor. It took ten minutes to pick up the last pieces, and he vacuumed up all nearly invisible smaller fragments. He could do without a mirror in the bathroom for now, he hardly cared. When all was done, Dexter stood in the doorway of his bedroom and looked at Misha. "Do you need anything?" He asked from a distance.

"Can I get up now?" Misha asked, already bored to death after only lying down for a few minutes. "I feel fine."

"Of course you can. Just... please keep the bandage on?" Dexter asked, because taking it off now would open it up to infection, and he knew he could not keep Misha anywhere he did not want to be.

Misha looked down at the bandage and frowned. It was going to be a pain to explain it at work. He stood up too fast when he sat up in bed and swayed a bit when he stood, but tried to play it off as though he tripped. Dexter was not fooled, but did not run over to steady him. He wanted him to stay in bed and relax but knew Misha would not stand for it.

"Did you have plans for the weekend?" Dexter asked instead.

"Yeah, some friends from work wanted me to go out with them tonight," he sighed.

That was perfect. It gave Dexter the perfect chance to escape to the office and run that test. Yet just then, Misha winced in pain and his head swung with delerium and he knew what his top priority had to be.

"You can barely stand up. I don't think you will be feeling good enough to go out tonight."

"I'll be fine. Just need some caffeine and I'll be set," Misha denied, managing to walk over to Dexter and wrap his arms around the older man's waist. "Thanks for doctoring me up."

At first, Dexter only stood, waiting for it to be over. When the boy did not let go, his own arms came intimately around his waist and pulled him even closer. Misha smiled and kissed Dexter's chin, since he could not quite reach his lips. "I won't be out long tonight," he promised.

Dexter had a feeling the boy was leaning on him because of something more than affection and he lifted him in his arms and placed him back in the bed. Knowing that Misha would only immediately want to get back up out of it, he sank down into the mattress with him, his arms still around his waist. "I don't think it's a good idea."

"I think it's a brilliant idea, and you are so cheating," Misha pouted, but let himself relax into the mattress and Dexter's hold.

Feeling braver, the older man shifted so he lay half on top of Misha. "You know, I'm very skilled at keeping people tied down," he teased, giving Misha a playful grin. "I don't think you are in a good state to... to party."

"I already told them I would meet them out there. I'll be fine," he disagreed stubbornly, and snuck a kiss on Dexter's lips.

Dexter was still not convinced, but he never was very good at intervening with people, at least, if they were not his victims. He would not be able to make Misha stay. And that meant a change in plans for himself tonight, too. He could not go to the lab. He would have to follow secretly behind Misha, to wherever he went. Another thought ended his previous instantly. He pulled himself away from the boy and looked down at him, panicked.

"Wait... can you hear what I'm thinking all the time? Can you hear my thoughts constantly?"

"No, it doesn't work like that. It's… well, it's hard to explain but I guess you could think of it as a radio station that isn't coming in all the way, sometimes there is static and sometimes it's perfectly clear," Misha explained.

"Oh," Dexter whispered. He sank back down slowly on top of Misha. "I wouldn't like for you to read my mind. It's not a very pleasant place to be. You don't belong there," he whispered.

"It's not that bad," Misha tried to reassure him. "It's just... different."

Dexter shook his head, disregarding Misha's attempt to sugar coat something that was unjustifiable. "Just promise me you will try to stay out," he pleaded. It was not just for Misha's protection. He did not think he could handle fearing that at any second Misha could sneak his way into his private thoughts. He was not used to sharing them. Only Harry knew what really went on in his head, and knew of the horrors that dwelled there. It aged him, and Dexter did not want the same thing to happen to Misha.

"I promise," Misha said, because he did not want Dexter to think that being with Misha meant that he would have no privacy at all.

Dexter blinked. It was so easy to trust him. That could either be the most dangerous or the most amazing thing in the world. "Okay." Dexter shifted on top of Misha, overcome suddenly with the need to explore him. "Do… do you like me like this?" He asked awkwardly, not knowing if it made the boy uncomfortable, being halfway on top of him.

Misha smirked at him. "A little too much," he admitted, and tried to think about something besides Dexter's weight on top of him. The last thing he needed was to get turned on and scare Dexter off.

Dexter grinned, encouraged, and gently kissed a tender spot of his neck. He could feel the pulse of his life against his lips for a brief second and thrilled. "Is too much a bad thing?" He hoped that this answer was just as encouraging as the first. He wanted more, and it was strange, because Dexter was not used to wanting anything except privacy and to kill. But he wanted to taste him again, to be connected. "I... I liked kissing you before." He tried to hint.

Dexter was pushing what little restraint Misha had left, and finally he pulled Dexter down and he met his lips more harshly than he intended. The kiss was rough and urgent and exactly what Dexter needed. Dexter opened up to the kiss, wanting to devour his mouth whole, their tongues sliding against one another's. His hands were frustratingly idle and one of them came to lay flat against Misha's clothed torso as the kiss intensified. Misha moaned into the kiss, his hands seeking skin as they lifted the back of Dexter's t shirt up so he could run his hands up and down his back.

Dexter broke the kiss when he felt the boy's hands slide up his back, but they may as well be under his skin. His lips never went far, however, and he swallowed his nerves and Misha's tongue as well as he kissed him more passionately than before. "I always thought I'd have to fake this," he thought out loud when he broke the second deep kiss.

"I'm glad you don't have too," Misha whispered. He could feel himself growing hard and he knew they needed to stop soon.

With that agreement, Dexter kissed him again, deep and slow, feeling the boy's hand still on his bare back. Experimentally, his own hand shyly slipped up the front of Misha's shirt, feeling his torso. Misha moaned when Dexter finally touched him, and good grief, if he was this hard just with first base, he could not imagine what actual sex would be like.

Dexter let his mind go and let his body take over. He shifted so he laid completely on top of Misha, but careful not to put his entire weight down on him. Encouraged, his hand continued to explore, his palm smoothing over his hairless chest, further up to his nipples and then back down to his belly button, which was pierced. He broke the kiss to look down at it, chuckling breathlessly.

Misha frowned at Dexter's chuckle. "What's so funny?" He asked, wondering why he had stopped when things were starting to get good.

Dexter's smile faded when it was met with Misha's frown. Had he done something wrong? Had he offended him? Dexter had a feeling they would have to work on their miscommunication issues. "This. I just... didn't know you had it." He whispered, his fingers ghosting over it to show what he meant. "I... it looks nice."

"Oh... thank you. I got it on a dare and liked the way it looked so I decided to keep it," Misha told him as he shivered under Dexter's touch.

Dexter kissed him gingerly on the cheek before his lips moved to his jaw, to his neck, down to his collarbone. His hand, still under his shirt, memorized every inch of skin there for the first time as if he would never get the chance again. Misha moaned and started to thrust his hips into Dexter's only to stop when he realized what he had done.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly.

Dexter pulled away as if he had no control over it and he felt his own hardness painfully obvious between them. "It's okay," he whispered, hoping to convince himself as well as the younger boy. "I think... I need a shower." He blurted out the excuse, anything to get himself away before it went too far. Unable to look at Misha, he rolled his shirt back down clumsily and stood up out of bed. He knew his erection was tenting his pants, something he never had to deal with before, and frankly did not know how to deal with it now. Blushing hard when he realized Misha could see the obvious bulge he rushed off to the newly cleaned bathroom.

**TBC…**


	6. Chapter 6

**Title:** Mind of a Killer (AU) (6/?)  
**Authors:****adarkerheaven**  
**Pairing:** Dexter/OC (Misha)  
**Rating:**R  
**Warnings:** Slash.  
**Spoilers:** None.  
**Word Count:**2,540  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine, Dexter belongs to its creators and Showtime. Misha, however, is all ours.  
**Summary:** **Misha Thomas**is the nineteen year old nephew to the Angel Faced Killer, the most wanted serial killer in Miami. Misha, a psychic, sees Dexter for who he really is, and is not afraid.  
**A/N:** This story was originally written as an RPG, which explains any shifty POV's. This chapter is not beta read. Feedback is appreciated!

Misha smirked as Dexter hurried off into the bathroom, glad that he had actually gotten a reaction out of him. And that blush had been just too adorable.

The room was hot, so Misha slipped off his shirt, just as someone knocked on the door. "Come on Dex. Let me in. Why is the door locked?" A female voice asked. Misha opened the door to reveal a tall brunette on the other side. "He's in the shower," he said smartly, thinking this chick liked Dexter.

Deb froze in surprise when a half naked boy with bed hair and a belly button ring answered the door instead of her brother. Her mouth hung open for a moment as she tried to convince herself she went to the wrong door. "Who the fuck are you? And where's my brother?" She demanded, looking the boy up and down.

_Brother? Oh, shit_, Misha thought to himself. "Um, I'm Misha. Dexter's my friend, I got kicked out of my apartment and he's letting me crash here."

Deb narrowed her eyes at the boy and pushed past him into the room, keeping the door open as if at any second she was going to karate kick Misha out. "My brother doesn't have any friends. If he did I would know about them," she challenged him, in full cop-mode, as if there were ever any other side to the girl.

"I'm a new friend," Misha insisted, crossing his arms over his chest and suddenly feeling way too exposed.

Deb put her hands on her thin hips and glared at the boy. "Dexter doesn't have any new friends, either. Where are your parents, kid?" She criticized, and looked over at the couch. It looked well lived in, with a suitcase on top of it.

She looked back at Misha and glared. "Wait, you look familiar. Where did I see you before?" She demanded.

"I'm almost twenty!" Misha shouted, before her next comment caught him off guard. "Oh, uh, I don't know. I work downtown. Maybe you ran into me at some point?" He shrugged, praying she did not recognize him.

Deb looked Misha over again suspiciously. She knew she had seen him before. "Shouldn't you be in high school or something? It's illegal to skip school, you know." She tried her best to seem intimidating, towering over the boy in height.

***

Dexter took a long, cold shower. He liked the cold. It reminded him of the ice boxes he used to take his victims. Yet now, he was soaking himself in cold water for another reason, and trying to think about anything but the way Misha felt underneath him. Nothing had ever thrilled him as much as a kill did, until now. He was grateful for the cold solitude of the shower where he could escape it all.

He did not come out of the bathroom until he was fully dressed, still not ready to bear more than his chest to Misha who he knew was waiting. As soon as he stepped out, however, he heard the familiar dirty mouth of his sister, and he froze dead in his tracks.

_Shit. Shit shit shit SHIT._In his panic, he ran back into the bathroom and shut the door.

"I'm going to get my brother," she announced, and gave Misha a look that dared him to stop her. Walking into the bedroom, she saw the bed was messed up and recognized it as something Dexter rarely let happen.

"Dex! I need to talk to you!" She banged on the door a few times before opening it, never really having respect of privacy. Besides, Dexter should not be hiding anything from her, anyway. Dexter jumped back and cursed himself for not locking it. "What is this kid doing in your apartment?" She asked.

"Nice to see you, too, Deb. And didn't he tell you? He's staying here for a few days until he gets his new place. He has plans to move in next door and thought it would be easier," he reached for the quickest, most convincing excuse.

Misha wondered why she kept insisting he was underage. It was starting to piss him off. "I think I'm just going to go out and let you two talk," Misha said, seeing the perfect opportunity to escape.

Deb rolled her eyes as the boy walked away. "Listen, Dex. I don't know what kind of hotel you're runnin' here, but I'm the one that needs a place to stay for a few days. They are exterminating in my apartment and the whole building needs to be evacuated." She leaned in the doorway of the bathroom and looked inside. "What happened to your mirror?"

"Fell off the wall. No biggie. I have others," Dexter tried to dismiss it. "You can stay here Deb." He changed the subject, knowing that it was expected of him to say yes. He was the only one Deb had, and now that she was single, she would give him one of her arm-punches if he even considered saying no.

Misha stayed out a couple of hours, mainly just window shopping until his began to hurt and he realized he did not have any Advil on him. With a deep breath, he opened the door to Dexter's place, hoping that Debra had left. Unfortunately, that was not the case.

Deb was on the phone with the station when Dexter heard the door open and Misha walk in. By the way the phone conversation was going, Dexter assumed she was going to make her way back there to work. Deb did not do weekends or vacations or breaks or even days off. She got bored easily, and for that Dexter was grateful.

Deep in her conversation, Dexter gently pulled Misha aside. "How's your hand?" He asked, the area reddened through the bandage where it had struck glass. He gently undressed the hand and studied it under the light, checking for signs of healing or infection.

"It's a little sore." He watched as Dexter checked over his hand. "Is Debra staying long?"

Dexter sighed and shut them in the bathroom so Deb would not see her brother so close to Misha. He passed Misha a bottle of Advil and prepared an alcohol swipe to cleanse the wounds. "For a night or two. Don't worry. She has a foul mouth but is harmless."

"You should leave it uncovered for a little bit. This might sting a little," he whispered the warning before going to work on the injury. "Have you... read her mind?"

Misha flinched at the sting of the alcohol but did not try and pull his hand from Dexter's grasp. "No, her aura is very... hyper, I guess you could say. So I didn't try to read her further, it would have given me a headache, I'm sure."

Dexter heard Deb's phone call get more and more urgent until finally he heard the door open and shut and her voice faded away. He heaved a sigh of relief, thankful that so far, Deb was too caught up in the case to notice what was very strange here. Dexter finished cleaning the wound, saying nothing.

"I should take a shower before rewrapping it," Misha said. "I'm meeting up with my friends."

Dexter took a small towel and gently wiped the wound dry. "I still don't think that is such a good idea to go out tonight," he said to the open wound, but his persuasion skills were never very much skills at all, and he knew he could not stop the boy. "Do you need extra clothes? Towels?" He let Misha take back ownership of his hand. _I'm sure he has enough clothes somewhere in that suitcase full of condoms, drugs, and death threats,_ he thought to himself.

"No, I've got everything I need," he said, giving Dexter a quick kiss on the cheek, but pulled back quickly when he caught the stray end of Dexter's thought. "You went through my bag?" He accused.

_Shit_. Dexter's eyes opened wide in shock and knew what had happened. If he was still suspicious of Misha's gift, this came as close to proof as he could ever want. Startled, he did not know what to say. Dexter stammered, unable to look Misha in the eye, and took a step back from him. "I... I had to make sure I could trust you," he tried.

"I trust you, even with all I know about you, and yet you go through my stuff... what did that prove Dexter!"

Dexter instinctively took a few frightful steps away from Misha's angry outburst. He wanted to lie, to say that the contents of the bag had spilled somehow and it happened by accident. But as angry as Misha was, he might dive into his mind again and find out that was a plain lie. "I wanted to try to search your past, because you wouldn't tell me anything. You know everything about me but I don't know everything about you. I didn't find anything." Well, that was partially true. True enough to believe, without further mind reading. A little guilt mixed in might do the trick.

"You didn't find anything?" He said suspiciously, knowing he had his whole life in his bag, including some stuff Dexter did not need to know about.

Dexter felt the heat of the intimidation room at the station and did not know if Misha knew the truth or not. He was unreadable, while Dexter was an open book. "Nothing that I didn't already know about. And I don't care about the marijuana," he answered calmly.

"You pitch a fit over me smoking cigarettes, but the pot is okay? You know what, it doesn't matter. I have to go," Misha huffed, stepping around Dexter. He was already going to be late.

Dexter opened and closed his mouth in search for a response, but was lost for words, and let Misha go. He scurried out of the bathroom and shut the door, giving Misha the privacy to take a shower.

Misha showered quickly and put a pair of jeans that had more holes in them than fabric. He paired it with a tight T-shirt that left little to the imagination. He was not looking to get laid, of course, but he needed to flirt to get men to buy him drinks, and his 'fuck me outfit' always did the trick.

Dexter was brewing coffee in the kitchen when Misha emerged from the bedroom. The boy walked over to his bag and grabbed his pot, and because he knew Dexter was watching, a condom as well. Maybe a little jealously would help move Dexter along in the sex department.

Dexter frowned. He was dressed like he was going after something he was not finding here, something he no longer wanted from Dexter. His knuckles were white as they clenched his coffee mug handle. Oh, what he would not give to stab whatever other man puts on that condom tonight.

He guessed that it did not mean Misha wanted to continue whatever they had between them. It was over before it even began, and Dexter was alone again. It did not feel nearly as nice and liberating as he thought it would. Instead, he only felt more trapped. But what was there to say right now?

"I guess you don't plan on coming back tonight." It was not a question but a statement, and he took the first sip of coffee to silence himself further.

"I'll be back," Misha promised, and smiled when he felt Dexter's anger rolling off of him in waves. "Why do you ask?" He asked nonchalantly

Dexter could not help narrowing his eyes in anger at Misha even from so far away. "Because normally when people go out to clubs dressed the way you are with weed in one pocket and a condom in the next they don't plan on coming home." He tried not to sound as crude as his thoughts were. He did not know why he was feeling something strangely similar to what he imagined hurt to feel like. Not the kind you feel when you stub your toe, but the kind that loyal husbands must feel when they know their wives have been cheating.

"Well, neither of us are normal, so it doesn't matter anyway," Misha shrugged.

Dexter clenched his jaw. He did not like being led on or teased, and he did not understand these games. "So you want to be with me, but don't want to give up other men?" He questioned him, his voice and gaze steady but the anger was brewing inside him like the coffee on the counter. "Don't plan on coming back then. Take your bag." He couldn't stand it.

Misha had not wanted to push Dexter this far, and he rolled his eyes and wrapped his arms around the other man despite his stiff body language. "Maybe I was planning on getting lucky when I came back here."

Dexter was just as surprised by the embrace as he was by the words that followed. He tried to back up out of his arms, but only ended up with his back against the counter, trapped against Misha. He stopped struggling and a chill ran through his body. "But you are taking it with you to seduce other men into getting you drunk?" He looked straight past Misha.

"It's just a prop. I 'accidentally' drop it and they think they might get lucky," he explained.

Dexter did not like that. He did not like that at all, for so many reasons. "And they don't?" Dexter asked softly, still hinted with anger. A slick hand of his slipped into his tight back pocket and took the condom from him, balling it into his fist so Misha could not take it back easily. "That might make some people angry." He knew that alcohol was also strongly correlated with aggression. Some of the older guys Misha led on might not appreciate getting rejected after spending so much money on him. Trouble could happen.

Misha sighed when he felt Dexter reaching into his back pocket and realized it was probably the only action he would be seeing for a long time. "Fine. I won't take it with me," he mumbled into Dexter's chest before reluctantly letting go. "I gotta go. I'm already late. I'll see you tonight."

Dexter did not try to stop him this time. Only after he left could he safely plan his agenda for the night. Suddenly, he realized something and ran after Misha before he closed the door. "Please don't drive tonight... or... get in a car with anyone who has been drinking. Do you need me to pick you up?" _God_... he thought to himself. _When did he suddenly start sounding like a parent?_

"I'll take the bus..." Misha said automatically. It was how he was used to travelling, since he did not own a car or have his driver's license. When he felt Dexter's worry, however, he reconsidered. "Or I can call you, if you don't mind."

Dexter was satisfied with that. "No, I don't mind," he told him, and with a soft smile, he disappeared back into his apartment.

**TBC…**


End file.
